


Cuvée Belle Noire

by kid_n_the_hall, PhryneFicathon



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, fizz the season, let's get fizzical, smut smutty smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-15 20:25:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13621038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kid_n_the_hall/pseuds/kid_n_the_hall, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhryneFicathon/pseuds/PhryneFicathon
Summary: ”What was that? Were you asking for something?”Bastard.”No””Miss Fisher, are you...begging?” he nearly chortles.”I don't beg” she forces out, refusing to budge, refusing to let him beat her at this game





	Cuvée Belle Noire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Heavyheadedgal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heavyheadedgal/gifts).



> Prompt: ”Tell him I was too fucking busy - or vice versa” Dorothy Parker
> 
> What did you say? Too predictable with smut linked to this prompt? Bah, humbug!

New Years Eve is around the corner, there are parties to attend, Champagne to be sipped. Jack had very reluctantly left their little cocoon at the Ritz, had allowed Phryne to pour him into a tux and accompanied her around town. Now enduring the main event, dinner at whats-their-names in some outrageously fancy house in an even fancier part of London.

Lovely food, lovely drinks, lovely company, at least to his right. To his left were the shoulderblades attached to some stiff upper lip deeming a police officer from Australia an utter waste of time. But the food was delicious, if slightly pretentious, and Phryne ever so lovely in a gown cut so low in the back it surely had to be some adhesive involved to enable the garment staying on. Women's fashion, equal amounts ridiculous and enticing, which he welcomed as Phrynes elegantly curved spine and silky skin was his view for most of the evening. The lady on his left had made a great two hour impression of a sour prune.

Jack on his end, has spent the last 20 minutes thinking about Aunt Prudence. About the big bows and bibs she favoured on her dresses. About her searing eyes that somehow always looked down on you despite her being just about 5 feet tall. About flummery. About Aunt Prudence eating flummery. 

It felt more than a bit ironic, being half a world away and thinking of the nemesis of kisses that should have been. But necessity knows no law, and he was expected to walk away from this table in not too long and doing so in his current state would offend both the other guests and his dignity. Phryne surely found it amusing beyond reason, as instigator of the scheme causing his troubles. 

This woman, mingling with the top of the toffs, dressed to the nines, all classy conversation and impeccable manners and still part of her mind permanently resided in the gutter. _Not that he was entirely sorry about that. Or at all_. He just wished she could perhaps save the the gutter impulses for her suite. 25 minutes ago she had turned back to him, from a surely very intriguing discussion with her table companion about the old man's equestrian proficiency, pulled something out of her handbag, leaned in and nudged his knee. When he let his hand venture under the tablecloth she'd handed him a piece of fabric. He knew her smiles well enough to know that a discreet assessment under the table would be his safest option. It was her knickers. 

Of course. 

Hello cock.

So here he was, thinking of his lover’s obtrusive relative when he caught himself once again fiddling with the soft violet silk, neatly folded and placed in his trouser pocket. Which of course eradicated that whole Aunt Pru-sequence. He welcomed the speech that wrapped up the dinner, boring and stilted, perhaps it would help in relieving some tension. Unfortunately it bored Phryne too, and her fingers, so she obviously had to indulge them in their wanderlust. Geography of choice being Jack's forearm, hands, knee and thigh. He cursed so explicitly in his head he'd make the most hardened sailor proud. Speaking of hardened, he would have to remain seated in this chair through the night. And yet, a glance under black fringe and an impish smile thrown over a freckled shoulder and he was all sparking desire, soft insides and nipped heart again. Damn the woman. 

He'd have her pay for this.

//

Somehow they made their way back to the hotel without scandalizing neither bystanders nor Jack. The only ones offended being the single men who had all orbited Phryne as they left the table, hoping for a dance or vague promises of something more. 

Finally out in the cab, Phryne had gained a bottle of Champagne and Jack the knowledge of some of the perks of a voluminous fur stole; one's escort can be disguised behind it to some extent as well, enabling a smooth escape despite a persistent erection. 

While Phryne is draping herself over the front desk enquiring the concierge for any relayed messages and an icebucket, Jack admires the view and absentmindedly pets the fur stole. He gets a bit lost in a replay of the day before, him stroking her back, feeling her spine arch under his hand as his head spun. Knees buckling when she threw him a look over her shoulder. Her laugh brought him back and he caught her saying ”And please, I am not to be disturbed until four pm at the earliest tomorrow. Not even if my fathers suffers another transportation trauma.”

”Yes, Miss” the concierge nodded, a model of discretion.

”I will be fucking busy” she whispers in Jack’s ear as she snuck her hand in his. ”Or vice versa” she does a little twirl and winks at him, and as his nether parts found that turn of phrase quite amusing, he could only roll his eyes and follow her.

//

Phryne expected to be more or less ravished up against the door as soon as they made it into their suite, but Jack just kissed her cheek and then made a beeline for the bathroom. 

Alright. That was anticlimactic. The cab ride back had been very promising, he'd been so eager, all competent hands and urgent kisses. Oh, well. She flops down on the chaise lounge by the fireplace but jumps up again on the rebound to place the champagne on ice and to provide herself with a healthy measure of scotch. She could of course stage a little scene on the bed starring her in the nude, but she's frankly a little annoyed about Jack’s sudden indifference. So she burrows deeper into the pillows and downs her whisky. She's not going to make it too easy for him.

//

Phryne is bored halfway into a coma before Jack bothers to show up again. She's nursing her second scotch while she's removing her earrings. Jack walks past her with his not-quite-smile lurking and that patented Jack glance that is truly knicker ruining. If she was wearing any. Normally she would say something sassy at this point, to tease or flatter him just to see that endearing blush, but she's still a bit put out. Jack withdraws to remove his jacket, shaking it slightly and hanging it in the closet. He picks up his coat from the chair by the door, returning it to it's designated spot. Does the same with her fur. Takes his time with his shoes. Then, finally, he seems to register her annoyed form draped on the chaise and moves in to kiss her neck. She's not convinced. With less alcohol in her system she would be seething. But she lets him pull her up to standing, lets him kiss her shoulder, her cheek. She's only human after all. Jack begins to carefully untangle the exquisitely ornamented silver comb from her hair. He retreats to put it in her jewelry box, walks up behind her, traces her spine with a fingertip, making her shiver and sway towards him. He strokes the tip of his nose up her neck and inhales in her hair. Phryne prays, _not really_ , that Jack won't notice her squeezing her thighs together. And at last he starts working on the buttons on her dress.

She's watching him in the mirror by the closet. And she's quiet, completely out of character as it is, but she doesn't want to disturb whatever he's about to execute, and most importantly, she doesn't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing just how much this wait frays her. She's practically vibrating from the anticipation, and would have ordered him up on the bed and inside her long ago had he been anyone else. But he's not. Just Jack. Not that anything was ”just” when it came to him, not at all. _Nota bene, he had that way of tilting his pelvis when he entered her that was just so._ That maneuver would have her passing out one of these days. Phryne bites her tongue again, but christ almighty, her dress did not have this many buttons when she put it on. To be fair, one doesn't even have to undo a single button to get her out of the dress.

Not that she's really surprised, slow and steady seems to be his preferred modus operandi, just not to this extent. She tries to comply, with Jack she is quite certain it will pay off, every moment of suspense will pay triple in the end, so she lets him carry on, while biting her lip instead. Hard. 

He's finally undressed her, unwrapped her like a fragile present. Kissing each little centimetre of newly exposed skin. Annoying smirk flickering by. One button free, one kiss. Another button, another taste of her skin. Only her underthings remained, and as her knickers have been off for a while those buttons are dealt with already. Jack has a soft spot for her wearing only suspenders and stockings so usually there were no real interest on his part to remove those. Now however, he motions for her to recline on the bed as he kneels before her. Then it's the slow undoing of one clip, then a kiss and a little nuzzling along her thigh, she could feel his breath tickling the curls of her mons when he stopped to move to the next clip. Same procedure. There was a roaring fire rolling in insistent waves in her gut now. Next clip. Brief kiss soft like a feather. She'll draw blood from her bottom lip soon. 

When he's rolled down half of the second stocking, having just licked the inside of her knee she growls out a ”Please, Jack” his name all laced in thorns and snapped twigs. He just chuckles, kisses her shin and replies with a unnecessarily drawly ”Patience now, Miss Fisher”. The raspy notes in his voice makes her almost combust right there. 

She steels herself, refusing to beg. 

He's finished with her stockings, and gets up to fold them. Fold! She's never folded a stocking in her life! Phryne shuts her eyes, flops back on the bed and grabs fistfuls of bed linen and exhales. Slowly. She feels the bed shift, a hand on one knee. Then the other, gently encouraging her to part her legs. Finally. 

Jack kisses his way up from her belly button to her chin, turning left along her jawline. His warm breath on her ear is too delicious, she turns her head to catch a kiss but he's quick to dodge, trailing downwards again, rubbing his cheek along the side of a breast, placing an all too chaste kiss on her waist. It tickles, she squirms.

”Jack” it's drawn out, he can hear the stop teasing you bastard woven into his name.

”Delayed gratification, Miss Fisher, ever heard of it?”

”My life now is the delayed gratification of my early years.” 

_Touché_.

She locks her eyes on him with a look that, had it been a fraction sharper, would've severed limbs. He finds it a bit intimidating, but mostly amusing and arousing, he's not above enjoying holding some power over her. And she's so damned delicious when she's this mussed up and frustrated.

For now though, he can pretend to fulfil her wishes. So he scoots down the bed, moves into position between her thighs and barely manages to stifle a smile that would give him away and have her curse his balls into next week.

One little kiss finds a home just below a hipbone, he moves a little south, Phryne tries to meet him with her hips, Jack tuts at her and grabs her thighs firmly, holding her in place pressed down in the mattress. One hand ventures up, stroking inner thighs, _too light,_ her exasperated huff says.Then her equally soft belly, _too far up._ One, two, three kisses on the other thigh. One rough but elegant finger draws the contour of her sex, and she exhales in erratic gusts before she forces herself to steady her breathing in what he presumes to be a very vain attempt to maintain an unfazed facade. Jack finds this a little endearing, if this wasn't so much _fun_ he'd scold himself. Instead he inhales the heady scent that is her desire and anticipation, and plants a kiss soft enough to annoy her on her inner thigh as he circles her wet folds once more before withdrawing his hand.

//

That proverbial carrot better be a good one when she finally gets her hands on it. This is bordering on cruel now, dangling it so close and then nothing. She can almost feel his complacent smile bounce off her skin, and she growls again. 

”What was that? Were you asking for something?” _Bastard._

”No” 

”Miss Fisher, are you...begging?” he nearly chortles.

”I don't beg” she forces out, refusing to budge, refusing to let him beat her at this game. It definitely was a game now, stakes sky high. She just wishes she could focus enough to calculate how to match him. She could walk away, but her legs would surely be too wobbly.

”Hm” Jack hums out pensively. Then he gets up and walks away. And she knows she's already surrendered.

He comes back to the bed with the ice bucket and two glasses. Grabs the bottle and makes a little show of peeling off the foil. Then the muselet, slowly turning the wire. He takes a firm hold of the cork, and twists with small, controlled movements, that strain the sinews in his hands. A ”pop” and and a small amount of champagne escapes in a foamy drizzle. The suggestiveness of it makes her even more impatient. 

She could strangle him, but she's so wound up she's desperate for him to finish what he started, and the champagne might cool her down a notch or two.

Jack fixes her with a serious look complete with a waggish nuance, pours and hands her a glass of champagne.

”Don't spill a drop, we wouldn't want to make a mess of these sheets” he says in his Inspector voice that makes her toes curl. Phryne sips on her champagne, thinking she'd very much like to make a mess of these sheets. Jack slides of his braces, _finally,_ removes his cufflinks, saunters over to the desk to dispose them. Turns to face her while he unbuttons his shirt, removing it as he turns to the wardrobe. The way his back muscles shift makes her want to sink her teeth in them. Once the shirt is neatly hung he returns to the bed, sits next to her and motions for her to slide down. She complies in silence. 

”A top up?” she nods, he refills her glass. The half lying position makes the sipping difficult, but she muddles through; drinking champagne, no matter the position, is an art Phryne Fisher mastered long ago.

”You're not having any?” she arches an eyebrow instead of growling at him to _please_ continue.

”Why, yes” Jack winks at her and he pours a dash of champagne on her belly. She flinches and gasps from the chill and the surprise.

”Be still, Miss Fisher” Phryne really can't tell if it's his admonishing voice or the tickling bubbles that have her arousal skyrocketing. 

She watches as he begins to kiss and lap up the bubbly from her navel, adding a couple of stray kisses up between her breasts for good measure. A shaky intake of air is all she manages before he takes a swig from the bottle, leans down again, puts his lips to her breast and very carefully open his mouth, allowing the sparkling wine to tease her nipple, the cold liquid causing it to pebble. She hisses. He swallows. _Oh._ Jack repeats the action on her other breast, switching back and forth with each new sip of champagne. When he feels sufficient attention has been spent on her bosom, he marks out a winding road of wet kisses down to her hip before peeking up at her. 

She'd like to say something sultry and witty, just to win one little point, but it's futile. A half desperate mewling sound makes its way out instead. He makes himself comfortable between her thighs, downing a few swigs of champagne before once more keeping a mouthful and putting his mouth on her, his lips cold on her sensitive flesh. Parting his lips again and the cold together with little bursting bubbles have her shuddering in pleasure. Every little bubble, a tiny agonising caress. He let's a drizzle run astray in a teasing trail to mingle with her folds, she bucks off the bed and he chuckles, before he follows the champagne with his tongue.

Phryne finds her voice, ”Again” she demands and he obeys mutely. Another mouthful of champagne, another mouthful of her cunt. 

He's moving his tongue with clever intent, acknowledging every damn little nerve ending, soft laving mixed with rapid flicking over her clit. His enthusiastic mouth sending her into a spiral of mushed thoughts and insistent pleasure. If he keeps this up she'll forget her name soon enough, as will he, judging by the amount of champagne he's had by now. Right at that moment Jack seems to have used up his well of patient teasing, eyes are hungry and blazing as he looks up at her. 

With a huffing rumble he eases himself up her body, nudging her chin with his nose, nibbles at her neck and mumbles ”I think we're ready for the gratification now”. Phryne whimpers in approval, by now she'd probably climax if he just looked firmly enough at her. 

He gets up to rid himself of his last garments. Her right hand is still holding on to the glass, she downs it and slams it down on the nightstand to settle once more to enjoy the view as Jack sheds his final layers. How he still manages to appear calm and composed is a conundrum. No rush when he works through the row of buttons of the union suit and then the last few of his fly. Still taking care to neatly hang his trousers, he does however has the good taste of not retorting to ridiculous folding of his union suit once out of it. It finds itself unceremoniously chucked towards a chair as he's moves to the bed again, flaming eyes boring into her. The sight of him prowling towards her sends goosebumps down her body. He kneels at the foot of the bed, his agile form moving up to claim her. He finds home in the cradle of her hips, kisses her neck as he let her arousal coat the whole length of him before he aligns and enters her with a determined push and that hip twist. _Oh._

Jack stubbornly keeps his eyes open and on her, wanting to see how her gaze slides out of focus and in to the sensation, much like his own probably does. Her nails digs into the small of his back, wanting more of him. He lays quite still, just allowing tiny rocking movements with his hips, savouring how her walls are almost imprinting themselves on his cock. He strokes her fringe of her forehead, kisses her slowly in time with his tentative rolling thrusts. Soon there's a frustrated cry from Phryne as she grabs him around the neck and with her forehead pressed to his she scowls at him.

”Jack. Hard!” she pants, and in his haze he's unsure whether it's a statement or a command. Adjective or adverb. And why he's even considering grammar at this point. As the first is a fact, he makes the second his mission. Almost withdrawing completely before burying himself fully inside her. It feels bloody fabulous to be done with the teasing, that's for sure. Blood rushing fast, feeling hot and furious and Jack's not sure if it's his or Phryne's heartbeats he hears. 

This is ruining him in the best of ways. How it completely renders him without any other thoughts than this, them, their sweat, their rhythm. Allowing himself to give in to his needs. And she is all he needs right now.

He hold himself up with one arm while he crawls closer, inching his knees under her thighs and scoops her up with his other arm. She gasps and chuckles and quickly catches on, straddling him properly and hooks her arms behind his shoulders. 

”Oh, so you're allowing me to set the pace now?”

”Not entirely” he rasps out as he drops his hand to where they're joined to push her closer to the edge. She rolls her hips and hums into his neck, a low groan and cries of ”yesyesyesyes...” 

Phryne presses her face flush against his and the orgasm washes over her, she's tightening so furioulsy that Jack's only a thrust behind. 

”Delayed gratification indeed,” she murmurs before they collapse onto rumpled bedding.

//

His hipbone is sharp on her inner thigh. He's quite heavy now, limp from post climactic fatigue. Phryne tucks her nose under his chin, his stubble chafing lightly. Nostrils filled with the warm scent of arousal, sweat and release. His breath is hot on her forehead, her hair is disrupted by each exhale. The hipbone digging into her thigh is a dull pain now but she can't bring herself to shift or prod him to move. They're still joined, still holding onto each other, a big tight, messy knot. She smiles and tightens the knot of limbs and love and she can feel his pulse drumming on her lips and nose. 

”Ditshuavenesharr” she asks lips still connected with his skin. A vibration turned rumble loosens up the knot as he laughs, 

”What did you say?”

”When you disappeared into the lavatory before, did you allow yourself a _head start_?”

”I still had your knickers in my pocket, what was a poor man to do?”

”Not fair, Jack”

”All's fair in love and war, Miss Fisher.”


End file.
